


The Story of my Life

by Kedreeva Originals (Kedreeva)



Category: Original Work
Genre: Gen, Horror, Stories from my real life, Surreal horror, biography
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-02-11
Updated: 2018-02-11
Packaged: 2019-03-16 21:29:28
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 2,718
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13644804
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kedreeva/pseuds/Kedreeva%20Originals
Summary: People always tell me I should write about the weird things that happen to me, so here I am.





	1. Introduction

* * *

 

 

This is a collection of short stories about my life and the things that happen in it.

Chapter titles will be the story titles for ease of searching.

All of these stories are true to the best of my ability to remember them.

Please enjoy!

 

* * *

 


	2. The Story of Sam

I’ve been reading a lot of “true tale” horror stories lately (thanks Meeya)

and it’s gotten me thinking about some of the things that I experienced as a child/teenager.

Namely, the thing that lived (or rather, didn’t live) in my parent’s house.

I called it Sam. Let me tell to you about Sam.

 

* * *

 

 

            When I was a little kid, I used to hear and see things. I was terrified of going into our basement, even though that was where a lot of our toys were (thanks dad), because there was something down there. I can’t express to you what it was, but I remember being around 5 or 6 years old and knowing that there was a darkness in the corner near the water heater that had nothing to do with shadows cast by the light. It was the sort of darkness that had presence, that when you looked at it, you could feel it looking back. I hated it. I played outside for most of my childhood.

            My fear changed, however, when Sam turned up. I remember being in the basement, playing with the Playschool kitchen set, and realizing I was not alone in the basement. When I looked up, there was a young man, maybe 15 or 16 years old, standing by the stairs (which were kitty-corner from the water heater, as far as one could get from the dark corner), watching me.

            I stared back for a couple of seconds, but I had the very distinct feeling that this guy was not going to hurt me. Ever. Period. I remember looking him up and down, and then I just went back to playing. When I looked up again, he was gone. I should mention that our basement stairs were the creakiest stairs on the entire fucking planet. He didn’t leave by the stairs. He just… was there, and then he wasn’t.

            After that, the basement was less scary. Whatever was in the dark corner, it was afraid of the new boy. For lack of a better description, it  _squirmed_  when he was sitting watching me. Eventually, it left.

            I don’t know when exactly I began to call the boy Sam. I remember asking his name, once, but he never told me. Sometimes I would see him, sometimes I would just know that he was there, that same weight of presence the dark thing had had, except… he was just there. Sometimes, I would sit and talk to him until the room got too cold or too hot. The room almost always got too cold or too hot if he stayed too long.

            At some point, possibly more than one point, I told my parents about Sam. I suspect that they asked who I was talking to, when I was talking to “myself” in my room. I remember my mother telling me Sam wasn’t real. That Sam was an imaginary friend.

            Sam wasn’t an imaginary friend, and I know this because I’m not the only one who ever saw or heard him.

            When I was about 14, I was sitting in the kitchen talking with my mom as she made dinner for me and my younger sister and brother. From upstairs, we heard someone calling “MOOOOM!” This happened four times before my mom said “Go see what your sister wants.” Which I thought was strange, because I was 100% certain it was my brother calling, and they sound nothing alike. But I got up and walked upstairs and poked my head into my brother’s room and asked what he wanted. He had no idea what I was talking about.

            “You were just calling for mom,” I said. He shook his head.

            Confused, I thought maybe mom was right, and it was my sister. But she was across the hall in the bathroom, taking a shower. We don’t have a lot of privacy concerns in my family, so I poked my head in the bathroom door and asked my sister what she wanted. She pulled aside the shower curtain and asked what I was talking about.

            “You were just calling for mom,” I said, exasperated. Someone had been calling for mom, we’d both heard it. But neither my brother or my sister had been calling, nor had they heard anyone else calling.

            When I stepped out into the hall, that weight of presence pressed in around me. Pleased presence. Gotcha presence.

            When I was about 16, I had a friend staying the night. We didn’t have an extra bed and I didn’t have the personal space issues I do currently, so we were both sleeping on my top-bunk twin bed. I had only ever told my family about Sam, never any of my friends.

            I woke earlier than I normally would, because my friend had awoken. She was very stiff, staring at the end of the bed like she expected to be attacked, like she had seen a ghost. I asked her what she was doing awake so early.

            “Is your house haunted?” she asked, not taking her eyes off the end of the bed.

            “Why?” I said. Haunted wasn’t the word I would use- I don’t think Sam had ever been alive.

            “Because when I woke up, there was a boy sitting on the end of your bed,” she told me. She then proceeded to describe to me in perfect detail the boy she had seen. Maybe 15 or 16, medium length black hair, blue eyes, pale skin, dark clothes, blank expression.

            “That’s Sam,” I told her. I explained him to her, and she nodded along. "He won’t hurt you.“

            "He just disappeared,” she said. “I thought I was dreaming.”

            When I was about 17, my entire family was home for a night, for once, and we had all gone to bed at a reasonable hour. Around 3am, my dad (I assumed it was my dad) pounded HARD on my bedroom door. I don’t mean like, knocked. I mean POUNDED, like the police knock, like an angry fucking elephant was having a visit, like lightning struck outside my door.

            It set my adrenaline so high I went light headed as I popped out of bed and ripped open the door to share a piece of my sleep-addled brain…

            ... only to find that everyone else was tearing open their doors at the same time, because all of the bedroom doors had been knocked on like that, and none of us had done it to the others.

            There were plenty of other, smaller, less memorable Sam moments, but these were the ones I remember the most. I remember he liked to creak the hallway floors upstairs like footsteps, and move shadows where shadows shouldn’t be. I remember he liked to sit and watch me. He never spoke to me directly, but I remember when I called him Sam, he would smile.

            Through all of this, I think my mom tried to believe that nothing was happening. That there wasn’t anything in her house.

            A week or two after I moved away to college, my mother called me up in the middle of the night.

            “I believe you,” she said. “I believe you about Sam.”

            I was surprised, so I asked what had happened. Obviously something, if she was calling me in the middle of the night.

            “Your brother and sister are not home,” she said. It was the weekend and they were both staying over at friends’ houses. “I was laying in bed and I heard [whispered/hissed]” _Mom_.“ Like it was urgent, like someone wanted my attention. I forgot your brother wasn’t home, so I got up and walked to his room… and then remembered they were both gone. I thought I must have imagined it, so I went back to bed.”

            “People hear stuff as they fall asleep sometimes,” I told her.

            “I know. So I was trying to go back to sleep, and I heard it again. ” _Mom_.“ That same tone. Then again. And again. Louder. I wasn’t falling asleep anymore, I was wide awake. I remembered what you said about that ghost, Sam-”

            “He’s not a ghost,” I said.

            “Whatever. I remembered you talking about him, and so I said "Goodnight, Sam.” and the whispers stopped.“ She paused here, like she was collecting herself, and then she said: "And then I heard ” _goodnight_.“ and that was that. It all stopped.”

            I haven’t lived at home in a long time, but no one has heard from Sam since that night. Sometimes I wonder if he left after I did, looking for some other kid to protect, some other family to mess with. I don’t think he was ever alive, so I’m not sure there was a chance at  _moving on_  for him, but whatever happened to him, I hope he’s happy.


	3. Fred the Dog

            Fred the dog was my favorite dog in the world.

            He belonged to our neighbors, whom we met when we found him wandering around in the street outside our house after he got out while they were moving in. His tags said he was from Texas (I live in Michigan). He was a black German shepherd and he knew every command in the book, didn’t need a leash to be walked, and loved frisbees more than life. I used to dog sit for him regularly, and he was just an all around well-behaved, good dog.

            Fred died of cancer a few years after I met him.

            This is the story of what happened later.

 

* * *

 

 

            After Fred’s owners had him cremated, they brought home a little smooth collie puppy whom they named Ace. Ace was not as well behaved as Fred was; he had a high pitched bark and a long, flat nose and not a lot of sense. But he was cute, and he liked to cuddle, and he was all right for a dog.

            A couple of years after they got Ace, maybe 2 years, they were going to Texas to visit with family and they couldn’t bring Ace with them. They also had an ancient cat named Kibble (who has been Fred’s friend/toy) who could not go with them, either. Kibble needed special care, so not just anyone could babysit her, so they called me because they know I work with animals and that I know their animals in particular.

            Since they were only going to be gone for the weekend, they asked if I could stay the night at the house. That was fine, they lived only 2 doors down from my parents so I would get to visit with them while fulfilling my sitting duties. I went over early and got the run down of everything I needed to do for the animals.

            Last, they took me upstairs and showed me into their bedroom. “You can sleep in here,” they told me. “This is where Ace likes to sleep.” There was a dog bed in the corner that had less fur than the foot of their bed, so I just nodded. I didn’t mind sleeping with Ace on my feet.

            The first day was great. I mostly sat in their basement and played with Kibble while I wrote stories. I fed and walked Ace and played with him some, and visited my parents for lunch, and it was generally boring but calm.

            That night, I went upstairs and showered and got ready for bed. Their bed was actually this really really nice king bed, and they had really nice heavy covers and it was really good. I turned off the lights and climbed into bed and closed my eyes. After a bit, I heard Ace nudge open the door and stand in the doorway, so I put my hand over the side of the bed and called him over.

            He padded over to my hand and put his face where I could rub it. I scritched his snout and was moving to scritch his ear when I realized something.

            Remember how I said Ace had a long, flat nose? This dog did not have a long, flat, collie nose.

            I froze, opening my eyes but not looking over. I took a couple of breaths, at which point I was no longer touching the dog beside the bed, although I could still hear it. I didn’t really know what to do. What do you do in this situation? My brain was facing the problem like a fly faces landing in a puddle of molasses.

            After a couple of breaths, I collected enough brain power to do the only thing I could think to do. I called for Ace.

            Downstairs, I heard his tags jingle. I heard his tags jingle, and his feet padding up the stairs, and I heard him nudge open the door, which was still closed. I looked over to where my hand was still in open space, and there was nothing there.

            Ace hopped onto the end of the bed, turned around three times, and went to sleep.

            The next night (because yes, I stayed the next night as well), I was laying awake in that bed, thinking about what had happened the night before. I had my eyes closed, and, not wanting a repeat of the night before, I called to Ace.

            Downstairs, I heard his tags jingle. I heard him climb up the stairs, and nudge the door open. I opened my eyes long enough to look at the door and see that yes, it was Ace and yes, he was standing there waiting for permission to come into the room.

            “Come on, Ace,” I said, and I patted my belly with my hand in that universal pet ‘jump up here’ motion so that he would come lay on the bed with me again.

            The end of the bed dipped, and Ace turned three times, and laid down against my feet. I smiled.

            Then Ace’s tags jingled.

            From beside the bed.

            I opened my eyes, and looked over at Ace, who was standing beside the bed looking at me. He had gotten out of his dog bed against the wall, and walked over to stand beside me.

            I sat up and looked at the end of the bed.

            The weight was gone and there was nothing there at all.


	4. Andrew in the Hallway

This one is not my own personal story, but rather one my father told me when I was young. I want to say up front that my dad does not believe in ghosts. He has never believed in ghosts, but if asked, he will tell you this story. That is how I learned it- my mother told me to ask him, so I did.

 

* * *

 

 

To set this up, you have to know that my dad is the oldest child in a family of a LOT of kids. Andrew was (is) his youngest brother.

When my dad was about 14, he got up in the middle of the night to get a drink of water. My dad’s bedroom was at one end of a long hallway, and the bathroom was at the far end of that same hallway. When he opened his door, of course all the lights were off because it was the middle of the night, but instead of an empty hallway, he saw his little brother, Andy, standing partway down the hall with his back to my dad.

This was unusual, because again, Andrew was young at the time, a very little kid, and there was no good reason for him to be up standing around in the hallway by himself, in the dark. So my dad stopped.

“Andy, what are you doing up?” he asked.

Andy then turned around to look at my dad, and it was not Andy at all. It was a child my dad did not recognize, and he looked right at my dad and then turned and walked into the wall.

My dad, being the sensible kid he was and not believing in ghosts, stood there for a moment, and then went and got his drink of water and went back to bed.


End file.
